The Bad Stories

I wanted to find a story to tell today and I was going back through my archives (sitting in the chair thinking). And one that came up was about a time when I was little, really little. I imagine five or six.

We were driving. My dad (biological), step mom and me. They were in a fight. Probably because of me. I don’t say that because I’m dramatic but that’s how I remember it. I would sing in the car, she would tell me to shut up, I would sing some more and then she would probably tell him to shut me up and a fight would rage. I don’t actually remember the details other than she hated me making noise. And even now I don’t know if that was because she hated it or if she was trying to keep him from going off. Who knows, the effect was the same.

This particular day, I remember it got so bad that he stopped the car and she got out. I can’t remember if she yelled “Let me out.” Or if he yelled, “Get the fuck out.” Does it matter? In the big scheme of life, I don’t think so. They’ve been married 50 years now, I imagine. I don’t remember them getting married and I have no contact now, but the math seems right. Good for them.

I don’t tell this story.

I tell a lot of stories. I sometimes tell the same story over and over again. I think about why. When I tell a story about my great grandmother I feel warm inside, it’s like she is here with me and while that brings me great joy, I can also feel my eyes well with tears. My voice gets caught in my throat and I wish she were here to know my kids. For my kids to be able to learn from her and to understand how much I loved her. I want to capture those feelings again when I talk about her and even though today they can make me sad, the sad is a part of it because when we lose people that veil of sadness covers the memories. When we say enough, tell enough, share enough, the veil can be lifted and we can get to the emotions underneath, Like a fog lifting.

It is in the telling that you can reconnect with the feelings you want to feel.

So I wonder, is the opposite true. If there are stories that bring up negative emotions, does talking about them bring those other emotions more near? Is there a veil over them as well?

I don’t think so, I’m not sad when I tell you that he screamed so loud my ears hurt or that I was afraid he would drive off the road. How I wondered how she would get home and if he would turn his anger towards me. I just don’t tell them because no good comes from them. No joy. No connection. Nothing.

Except, maybe, except maybe others have felt that, too. So I wonder, is the veil over the bad memories, shame? I must have done something wrong for there to have been so much anger. And yet, I was five, maybe, what I would tell anyone that listens today is that we are the adults in the room and even if a five year old has the worst behavior in the world, it isn’t bad or wrong or evil, it is communication. Attention seeking or avoidant. Mine was always attention seeking. Still probably is.

For me, I don’t tell the bad stories, because I don’t feel like there is anything to gain from them. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I don’t want sympathy or worse yet people agreeing with him that I was bad.

Because I was a kid. There are no bad kids.

Like I tell my students, there really isn’t even bad behavior, just behavior that is unexpected in the moment.

Misbehavior is only behavior that doesn’t match what you think my behavior should be. And I can’t know what you expect if we don’t talk about it.

I have lived most of my life worried that I’m disappointing someone or living on the edge of fear that I will do something that angers someone so much they will punch me in the face or scream for me to get out of the car.

Maybe I don’t tell the bad stories because I don’t want you thinking I’m making an excuse. Timing is everything.

Maybe I don’t tell the bad stories because there is no place to put them.

Maybe I don’t tell the bad stories because I really only want to put good into the world, but the world doesn’t always believe that I understand it without the bad stories. Maybe I don’t even believe me.

So here’s to the bad stories creating the texture and depth that we each bring into the world and to finding places to share them, not for sympathy or drama, but for connection. I went through this and I want you to know about it. I’m not sharing it to get in a battle of who had it worse, I just want you to know me at a deeper level because then you might understand why I’m always looking for the upside, or why I have a long history of people pleasing or why I believe kids.

So, what happened after . . . she got out of the car and he was still fuming. The anger did turn towards me and I huddled in the backseat, quiet. After a few minutes I would start to sing again to try to make him smile. I would ask questions and tell jokes. I would be the bomb squad called in to cut the wire. It always worked, he always came back to center and would snuggle me up and make promises about beach days and trips, about playing games and time together and he would drop me off and go to her. I was always a library book to be returned, never a place for me on his bookshelf.

Sometimes we have to tell the bad stories so we can fill in the details of our life, so we can touch emotions that we don’t feel often otherwise they become patterns in our lives we don’t wish to repeat.

Telling stories can help you feel. Bring clarity. Sometimes telling stories can also bring relief.

And sometimes stories can remind you that you have lived through that feeling before and you weren’t stuck there forever.

So, fear, welcome back, I see you. I have been feeling you and I didn’t recognize you.

I’m afraid right now. Big changes, financial questions, in over my head with work and school and life, and I feel fear. And my fear has memories, too, of a little girl huddled in the backseat and she found a way to safety.

My muscle memory tells me to look it in the eye and make it feel lighter. sing quietly. Find joy. Maybe my techniques have improved, maybe they haven’t, but fear doesn’t get to stay. Fear can be overcome.

What did I do as a kid? I sang and then later I brought a friend, we weathered his house as a team. I put distance between us and I went out on my own finding people that wouldn’t scream at me. I told stories, I perfected my words, I found places where I no longer felt scared. I found safety.

So, that’s what I’ll do. Sing quietly to myself, and go into the world holding hands, I’ll tell good stories and together we will find safety. Not all at once and not always. Just slowly and mostly.

What the bad stories can do? They can remind you that you were the scared little girl but you aren’t anymore. You’ve survived fear, you will again.